Five Times Milo Banda Danced With Marcia Overstrand
by Isadora The Whovian
Summary: Exactly as the title suggests. In chronological order, too. Read and Review! Rated T for safety. Pretty sure its not actually T, but better safe than sorry.
1. In A Village Far, Far Away

A/N: Hello other Septimus Heap fans! I'm Isadora, and I have been reading these books for a loooong time! I have written multiple fanfictions for Septimus Heap, but this will be the first I've posted.

Bit of background on this story: the second word in the definition of the word Angie Sage gave for Marcia is gypsy...meaning Marcia is gypsy by blood. This plays a lot into my story, and since she's said the Milo is from the same place as Marcia, I've decided to make him half gypsy. You'll see what I mean as you read my story. Anyway, read and review! Reviews are really helpful and I like them! Oh and even though the title says dancing, I've realized that I don't contain too much of the dancing. The first two are mostly from Milo's POV, and then it kind of goes into normal third person. So yeah.

Oh, and I've only just now realized I uploaded the wrong one, so this is the replacement! Sorry

Disclaimer: Septimus Heap and its characters belong to Angie Sage. Only character I own in this is Juliet. I'm pretty sure she's the only one.

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><p>Milo didn't understand his mother. Some days she was completely loving, and asked him how school went and helped him with his homework. Sometimes he was even allowed to invite friends over. Other days his mother refused to talk to him, and treated him as if he wasn't there. Those were the days he struggled through his homework alone and made himself dinner. He didn't know why she did this, but he suspected it had something to do with his father, and why his skin was darker than his mother's. He asked about his father once. She told him he was a no good gypsy and to never ask again. So why, he wondered, are they on their way to meet him? And why did his mother pack all of his things, but none of hers?<p>

"Mama?"

His mother stared out the carriage window, not acknowledging his presence.

"Mama?" he tried again. She still didn't answer him, and he sighed. So it was one of those days then. He'd probably have to make his own food when they got to where his father lived. Or maybe not. Maybe his father would be really happy to see him, and play catch with him and teach him how to ride a bike. Milo was seven now, and his mother still hadn't taught him how to ride a bike. He had tried to learn on his own, but wound up with a broken arm. Since his mother was ignoring him, he did what he always did when his mother ignored him. He talked to her as if she was there, and pretended that she answered him. "I hope dad likes me. Maybe he'll play with me, and teach me to ride a bike. I'd like to learn."

Of course your father likes you, and that sounds like a great idea, she would say on one of her better days. Milo kicked at the seat in front of him. "We could play catch too. And maybe there are boats where he lives and we can go watch them."

This time his mother grunted. "They don't have boats where he lives?" he asked, confused. Once again, he received no answer from her. An uncomfortable silence followed his question until he asked another one. "Will dad be coming home with us?"

This one prompted his mother to laugh bitterly. "No. And neither will you. You'll be staying there, with him."

It all made sense to him now, why all of his belongings were packed and none of hers were. She was leaving him with his father, a man he had never met before and she hadn't heard from since before he was born. "And you won't be?" He already knew she wouldn't be, but he'd like to hear her say it.

"No. I can't stand the man. Or you, you ungrateful little half gypsy whelp."

Her words stung, and Milo found himself trying hard not to cry. He didn't even know what a gypsy was. It must be pretty terrible though, if his mother was using it as an insult. It also meant his father was a gypsy. Was that a bad thing? Did that mean his father was a horrible person? Mean, even? He hoped not. He had always dreamed of meeting his father, and he had always pictured a fun reunion. But maybe that wasn't going to happen.

The rest of the carriage ride to where his father lives Milo didn't breathe a word.

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><p>Upon arrival, Milo was pushed out of the carriage and into a village he had never been to, or even seen. There was nothing of technical origin here, not like the Castle and its Wizard Tower. In fact, the only thing this village had that even resembled a place of severe importance was a long cabin with an important looking flag waving in front of it. That was where his mother disappeared to after shoving him toward a group of younger children who were dancing along to music, instructing him to wait there and not to talk to anyone.<p>

He stood in front of the younger children feeling very much the outsider. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel very much at home here too. A lot of the children had dark skin like him, some even darker. All except one little girl, whose skin was lighter than all of theirs. She was the only child who paid him any attention and didn't act afraid of him, and the only one not currently dancing in the Circle with the others. Her hair was long and curly, and she stared at him with the largest, greenest eyes he'd ever seen. Milo stared back at her. She couldn't be more than four, he thought, judging by how small she was.

Yelling from the long cabin with the flag distracted him and he looked over. His mother was screaming at someone. He felt bad for whoever that someone was. It wasn't a good thing when his mother yelled.

When he looked back at the girl with the pretty eyes, he found that she had moved closer to him, observing him with interest. He didn't know what to say, which worked out rather well because she suddenly started to talk.

"You look lonely," she told him bluntly. Her words couldn't be closer to the truth, he thought. He was a long way from home, and his mother would offer him no comfort of any kind. Before he could agree with the girl, she continued. "Do you want to dance?"

Milo wasn't so sure he liked dancing, but he wasn't about to turn the little girl down and took her small outstretched hand in his, smiling sheepishly. She grinned toothily at him and tugged him into the Circle. When he didn't start dancing like the others, she frowned. "Do you know how to dance?" she asked.

He shook his head no, the tips of his ears turning red. She pulled him out of the Circle, away from the fire and the music and the laughter. "That's ok, I'll teach you. You'll be dancing in the Circle in no time."

He briefly wondered how she could speak so well. The four year olds he knew back at the Castle had a hard time with that sort of thing.

"Step forward," the girl ordered. He did. "Alright, now clap your hands." He did that too. She continued to instruct him, and he continued to do as he was told.

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><p>She pulled him out of the Circle once more, laughing breathlessly as she ran down the pathway to the edge of the village, dragging him with her. He laughed too, and couldn't help but think he made a new friend. She suddenly stopped and fell into the tall grass. At first he thought she had fallen, but then she tugged him down to lay in the grass with her.<p>

"That was fun," he told her, and she nodded.

"I like dancing."

Milo didn't think he liked dancing earlier, but he definitely does now. Maybe, since he had to stay here, they could dance again sometime. "I like dancing too," he decided, turning his head to look at her. She really did have pretty eyes.

He didn't realize he had said it out loud until she spoke. "They're Wizard eyes. All Wizards have them."

He doubted that was true. He had seen the green eyes of the Wizards back at the Castle, and hers were nothing like them. Hers were shinier, more intense. And they glittered more. "Yours are prettier," he said sincerely. She didn't say anything, so he figured that she hadn't heard him and decided to talk about something else. "You're a Wizard then?"

"Not yet. When I'm older maybe. I'd like to be one. I even know a little **Magyk**, see?" Just as quickly as she had laid down she sat up again, and he did too. The little girl held out her palm and bit her lip. Slowly a flower appeared, and she held it out to him. "I'm learning to not say the incantation when I do it," she said proudly. He took the flower and it crumpled to dust in his hand. She frowned. "But that keeps happening."

"You'll get better," he promised, and picked a flower out of the field they were laying in. A lily. He handed it to her and she took it, smiling at him.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly his mother was there, dragging him to his feet. "Milo Banda!" she screeched. "I told you to stay put!"

"I'm sorry Mama—"

She whirled on his new friend. "And you, you little gypsy urchin, how dare you talk to my son!" She confused his friend,and her pretty eyes welled up with tears. She didn't understand why this woman was yelling at her. Neither did Milo. If his mother was leaving him here, why did she care who he talked to? And why had she called his friend a gypsy urchin? Weren't gypsies bad? His friend wasn't bad. "We're leaving. Now." His mother grabbed his arm tightly, her nails digging into his flesh. She was causing a scene, and the music stopped as adults and children alike stopped what they were doing to observe what was going on.

"I though I was staying here with dad—"

"Your father," she snarled, "died three years ago and none of the other gypsies will take you." She glared at his friend, as if it was her fault. "This girl's kind is trouble, Milo. You'd best remember that."

Milo didn't see how the girl could ever be trouble. She had been nice to him, nicer than his mother ever was, and had even taught him how to dance. He suspected that his mother was lying to him. She did that sometimes.

"You're being mean!" the little girl suddenly shouted. "I am not trouble!" She stood up and stomped her foot at his mother and Milo was awed by her bravery. Her shouting attracted the attention of two adults who had been watching the scene unfold and now realize that it was their daughter the woman was yelling at. The two adults ran over, and the woman scooped his friend up in her arms while the man stopped in front of his mother. This man was obviously a man of extreme importance, and Milo wondered if he might be the leader of this village.

"I told you to leave, Juliet Banda. We do not want your kind here," the man growled. By this point, Milo understood that he was not lumped into that statement, so he wondered what the man meant.

"Don't worry; I wouldn't want to stay here any longer than I needed to. Come on, Milo." His mother turned sharply on her heel and tugged him along with her, back to the carriage and away from the village he suddenly wanted to stay at. As they reached the carriage, he looked back. His friend was waving at him, her eyes sad. He waved back, and then was shoved into the carriage and he could no longer see her. He wondered if he would ever see her again, but knew the answer was no. His mother would never allow it.

As the carriage pulled away, Juliet began to rant and rave her hatred for gypsies and Wizards alike. Milo ignored her, for he now knew his mother was wrong.

He thought about his friend with the pretty Wizard eyes and her dancing the entire way home.


	2. At The Wizard Tower

A/N: Second part up! This part skips ahead more than a few years, to where Milo meets the little girl he had danced with all those years ago :). Basically, this is the second time Milo Banda dances with Marcia Overstrand, and it is this dance that starts their relationship for the first time. So yeah. Anyone hate Juliet yet? Oh and this part is kind of short.

Disclaimer: Septimus Heap and its characters belong to Angie Sage. I am not her, no matter how much I may wish to be

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><p>Milo didn't really know why he came to the ExtraOrdinary Wizard's Winter Ball. He didn't have a date, and he didn't really know any Wizards. But it was better than going immediately to his mother's house; his only place to stay in the Castle when he wasn't sailing. Ever since the day his mother had tried to get rid of him and he had danced with the little girl in the village, his mother had tried to raise him with her views. She hated both gypsies and Wizards, and tried to get him to too, but he remembered the girl and her green eyes and decided that his mother was wrong. Mostly he just ignored her, like she had done to him in his childhood.<p>

He glanced throughout the Great Hall of the Wizard Tower, searching for someone he might know, or someone he might like to dance with. He didn't see anyone, and none of the young women there are his type. Then he sees her. She wasn't really his type, but she was intriguing. Standing by herself in the corner was a young woman dressed in a green gown, long purple ribbons adorning her sleeves. Her head was bowed, and her dark hair fell in ringlets about her face. She wasn't traditionally pretty, but he couldn't help but find her beautiful. He also thought it odd that anyone could be standing by themselves at such a wonderful ball, so he decided to go and talk to her.

She looked up as he neared her, and he was immediately thrown back into his past. Her green eyes shined in a way that other Wizards' didn't, and he could hardly contain the shiver of excitement that ran through him. It was the same girl he had danced with when he was seven, it had to be. He had never really forgotten her, and had thought he would never get to see her again. It was only when he was almost to her that he remembered her telling him she liked dancing. Judging by her body language and the way she isolated herself from everyone, that statement wasn't still true. She seemed out of place here, anxious even. And incredibly lonely. He wondered why.

Her eyes met his as he came closer to her, her confusion at actually being approached evident. "You look lonely," he offered as an explanation, stopping in front of her. She looked away from him.

"I don't dance," she told him softly. He frowned momentarily, and wondered what changed her opinion. She continued. "And even if I did no one would want to dance with me anyway." He could tell she hadn't meant to say that, as her cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.

"Why is that?" he asked.

"I'm not pretty like other girls. Just intimidating. I scare others off."

"I don't think that's true at all," he said truthfully before he could stop himself.

She looked back at him sharply, quizzically. "What is it you want?" she sounded highly suspicious of him.

"I'd like a dance."

She narrowed her eyes. "I just told you. I don't dance." The look she was giving him made him suspect that she thought it was going to scare him off. Instead he found it endearing.

"I can teach you," he offered hopefully, holding out his hand to her. She looked down at his hand in surprise, obviously not expecting his offer. Then she met his eyes again, and he saw something change in her expression. He wasn't sure what it was, but it softened her. She hesitated only a few seconds more before taking his hand.

He led her out onto the dance floor. Once there she placed her hand on his shoulder, and he her waist. "Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Take a step forward with your left…."

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><p>It wasn't until Alice pointed Marcia out that Alther realized she had left her corner. He had been keeping an eye on her the entire night, secretly hoping she would go and talk to someone for company. Instead she had just stayed there all by herself, staring off at nothing. So when he saw her being twirled around by a rather handsome young sailor, he was surprised. He hadn't thought she would dance with anyone. When he had suggested the idea for a Winter Ball she had protested strongly against it, and had very nearly won the argument. And she wasn't only dancing, he noticed. She was smiling and laughing at something the young man had just told her. As happy as he was to see her happy, Alther still felt an almost overwhelming feeling of protectiveness for his apprentice.<p>

"She's dancing. With a man," he muttered, taking a step forward. Alice grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"She is, and you are not doing anything about it."

"But she—A man, Alice," he protested.

"That poor girl has it hard enough already, being your apprentice and all. People are already scared of her. She doesn't need you chasing off potential relationships," Alice scolded.

Alther gaped at her. "Potential relationships?" he squeaked.

Alice rolled her eyes and shushed him. "Let that girl have a personal life, Alther."

"I am!" he looked back at where Marcia and her friend had been only seconds ago, only to find that they were not there. He once again took a step forward, and once again Alice pulled him back.

"They went into the courtyard. Leave them be."

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><p>They were walking through the courtyard arm in arm, a comfortable silence hanging around them when Milo spoke. "You've got really pretty eyes," he told her, like he had done in the grass just outside of her village.<p>

If she remembered it, she didn't show it. "They're Wizard eyes. All Wizards have them."

"Maybe so, but yours are greener, shinier."

"Thank you."

And then, just like he had all those years ago, he asked her if she was a Wizard.

She shook her head no. "Not officially. I've got three more years to go." She pointed to the purple ribbons on her sleeves. "Senior Apprentice."

"I see. And are you skilled at **Magyk**?" he asked.

She glanced back at the Tower. "My tutor thinks so. He says I could become ExtraOrdinary Wizard one day."

"Impressive." They stopped walking to sit on one of the stone benches in the courtyard. "Would you like that?"

She nodded her head eagerly. "Very much so. I've wanted to be ExtraOrdinary Wizard ever since I moved to the Castle when I was eight." Her cheeks flushed again and she looked away, and once again he got the feeling she felt she had shared too much.

He didn't want to make her too uncomfortable, so he asked her about her **Magyk** ability instead. "Could you perform some **Magyk** for me?"

She gave him a scrutinizing look, narrowing her eyes. "**Magyk** isn't for show," she scolded, crossing her arms.

He could tell from that statement that she loved everything about **Magyk** and didn't want to desecrate it in any way. Although he would still like to see her do some **Magyk**. "Please? It doesn't have to be anything too extravagant, it can be something small." He remembered the flower she had conjured up for him, the one that had crumpled to dust. "Like a flower," he added.

He could clearly see recognition in her eyes now. She lost the look, and uncrossed her arms. "Oh alright," she conceded, and held out her palm. In less than two seconds there was a perfect lily sitting in her palm, exactly like the one he had picked for her at age seven. He didn't think it was a coincidence. She handed it to him, and when he took it, it didn't crumble. He turned it in his hand for a moment, then reached over and tucked it behind her ear.

She blushed and averted her eyes. He touched her cheek with a soft, brief touch before removing his hand. "There." It was only then that he realized she'd never told him her name. He was just about to ask her for it, but she beat him to it and he got the feeling she was somehow reading his mind.

"My name is—"

Someone beat her to it, too. "Marcia!"

They both jumped and faced the Wizard Tower. To Milo's amazement and surprise, the ExtraOrdinary Wizard himself was standing there. No wonder her tutor had said she could become ExtraOrdinary Wizard one day.

Marcia smiled apologetically at him. "That's my tutor, I really should go." She stood up, and so did he. This time he wasn't about to let her get away from him without being sure he would see her again.

"Will I get to see you again?" He asked.

She thought it over before nodding her head. "Yes, I think you shall. You know where to find me."

He nodded too, grinning. She noticed that it was the same half grin he had given her when she had first taught him to dance. She had liked it then, and she definitely liked it now. Marcia turned to go back to the Wizard Tower, but suddenly stopped and faced him again.

"It was nice meeting you again, Milo Banda," she murmured, stepping closer and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. He was pleasantly surprised into silence, and it was only after the silver doors to the tower swallowed her up that he realized he had never told her his name.


	3. At The Palace

A/N: Hey all! This is part 3! I apologize if it seems too short, or just a little out of character. I have an English essay to write, but this is more fun so I wanted to get this up and on. I hate waiting for updates, and so I want to update as soon as possible. This part takes place some time after Fyre, and you get to see a little more of Marcia's thoughts. If I left something out or you think I've left something out, dont hesitate to tell me! I will update the chapter with a new version if it comes to my attention that something isnt adding up. I have mostly free time on my hands, guys. I can do it however many times I need to. Anyway yeah here's the story. Read and Review!

Disclaimer: Septimus Heap and its characters belongs to Angie Sage.

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><p>Marcia had not truly danced since she was a child. Of course, that was excluding the time Milo had asked her to dance when she was still an apprentice. She didn't think that one really counted, as it hadn't lasted long and she hadn't remembered how. The last time she had danced was the day Juliet Banda brought her son to her village. Marcia remembered that day well, and it wasn't only because she had met an intriguing boy with a lovely smile. No, that was the day when her life first got switched around. Juliet and her thinking had only made her parents want to raise her away from her village, and not as a gypsy. Gypsies got a lot of hate, for reasons Marcia still didn't understand. Melchior and Trassimma Overstrand didn't want their daughter growing up as such if it was only going to get her mocked and prejudiced against. So they had packed up and moved away, vowing to leave it all behind. Marcia, being four, hadn't understood why they were leaving their home, and was only confused when her parents yelled at her for dancing. Eventually she just stopped, and although she wanted to dance, it felt like she was doing something wrong whenever she tried.<p>

Sometimes she wished that Juliet had never brought Milo to her village. Then her parents wouldn't have realized what was going on out in the world, and Marcia would have stayed at the place she first thought of as home. It was only after she wished it that she wanted to un-wish it. If Juliet hadn't brought Milo to her village, hoping to get rid of him, Marcia wouldn't have met Alther when she was fifteen during the extra** Magyk** classes at school. She wouldn't have become his apprentice two years later after his current one had quit. She wouldn't have ever met Milo, she most certainly wouldn't have become ExtraOrdinary Wizard, and she would never have met Septimus or saved his life that day from the snow.

She didn't dance, for a lot of reasons. This was why she found her current position very confusing. If she didn't dance, why was she at Jenna's celebratory ball? She didn't know what possessed her to go to something she probably wasn't going to enjoy. However, a part of her still wanted very much to dance, and watching the others as they whirled around on the floor made her heart ache.

She was so lost in her thoughts as she watched the others that she didn't notice that Milo was standing beside her until he spoke. "Care to dance?" He asked.

She jumped slightly, startled by the sudden sound of his voice. "You know I don't dance, Milo," she pointed out, somewhat frustrated. "And you know why."

He held out his arm to her, expecting her to take it. "Yes, I do."

His actions confused her. If he knew why, then why was he still asking her? "Then why—"

"I know how much you'd like to, even if you say you don't."

"Milo—"she protested, but he interrupted her.

"One dance. Just one. Please?" He gave her the lopsided half grin she liked so much, and she found herself unable to turn him down. She hesitated, swallowed the rising anxiety, and slipped her arm through his.

"Fine. But only one."

Much to the surprise of nearly everyone in the room, he led her onto the ballroom floor. This time he didn't have to teach her, and they stood with just a little less space between them than they had when they were younger.

As they danced, Marcia could feel eyes on her and it was making her incredibly nervous. "Milo, people are staring at me," she whispered, trying to avoid unwanted eye contact with anyone.

"Shh." He hushed her. "Not for reasons you think." She had told him a long time ago what his mother's words had done to her and her family, and knew that she could be prone to panic attacks whenever the stress or paranoia was too great. He'd only witnessed one when he had dated her previously, and hoped he wouldn't ever have to witness another one. She told him the panic attacks were happening less and less, but she could still easily get one if her anxiety level was too high.

"But they're staring, Milo. Why are they doing that?"

"They're just surprised to see their ExtraOrdinary Wizard dancing with a ship captain, that's all," he told her. He could feel the tension in her rising, but he didn't want to stop dancing. It had started their relationship off before, and he hoped it could do it again.

"I don't like it."

He spun her around, and when she was facing him again he spoke. "Marcia, people stare at you when you preform **Magyk**. How is this any different?"

His question got her thinking, and he could almost see the gears turning in her head. He was right. The majority of the Castle really wouldn't care if she was gypsy, and if Milo was correct they were only surprised that she was dancing at all. They did sort of the same thing whenever she did **Magyk** in public. They only wanted to see a show. "It's not," she realized, and for the first time in a long time she could feel some of the anxiety leave her.

He smiled. "Exactly."

Marcia danced with Milo for more than one song, and though she was still a little nervous about the people watching her, she eventually stopped thinking of them. They eventually stopped watching her too, and she just enjoyed the time she got to spend with Milo.

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><p>Septimus was, of course, watching her from across the room while he danced with Rose. He didn't really know what to think of Milo. He had respect for the man, and knew that Milo tried to do good but sometimes ended up failing miserably, but Milo had broken Marcia's heart once. She had told him, after he had inquired about the whole kiss on the hand thing Milo had done when they got back to the Port after dealing with the Warrior Jinn. If Milo broke Marcia's heart again, Septimus was going to do something about it. Well, whatever a fifteen year old boy could do.<p>

He watched as Milo twirled Marcia around a few more times, and noticed that she was smiling more than he had ever seen her smile. He was watching her closely, and so he also noticed how her smile was quickly replaced by a look of terror as her shoe slipped on the floor. As she fell backwards, grappling with Milo's arms to catch herself, Milo caught her. To anyone else it would've looked as if he had dipped her. Milo's arms were around her waist, holding her off the ground, and she was holding tight to him, her own way of keeping herself off the floor.

Their faces were inches apart, and Septimus watched as both Milo and Marcia's looks of terror faded into something else.

Milo leaned in closer to her, and he watched as Marcia's eyes slipped closed only seconds before Milo captured her lips with his.

Septimus's jaw dropped, and he could hear others in the room gasping as everyone stopped to gawk, but the kiss wasn't the only surprising thing. Marcia didn't pull away, nor did she slap Milo like he would have expected her to have done a few weeks ago.

The most surprising thing was that Marcia was kissing him back.


	4. At The Keep

A/N: Hello people! Sorry for the late update, but here is part 4! This part takes place sometime after Pathfinder, I think. or maybe before. Either way, Marcia and Milo are married in this and there might be a few small spoilers. I'm going to go back and fix the few mistakes on the other chapters, and since Part 5 is already written mostly, I might have time to upload it later! Anyway, I really hope you like it! And readers, please review. It makes me so happy and I cant stop grinning like an idiot for a long time. Plus, it only wants to make me write more. And more Milo/Marcia fanfiction is a good thing.

Oh yeah, and I also figured that Marcia would be a Sherlock nerd. I mean, she does quote him in Fyre.

Disclaimer: Not Mine! Belongs to Angie Sage. Except Juliet. I own Juliet, and she is the most hated character I think I've ever written.

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><p>Marcia was seated in her window seat, high up in the central, circular main room of her Keep. The window alcove nestled into the ten-foot-thick walls, a narrow staircase leading to it. Around the bench was a bunch of shelves. They were above her, around her, and even underneath her. Each one was stuffed with books of every genre, although most were <strong>Magyk<strong> books. Marcia loved to recline against the red and purple cushions and curl up with an exciting book. In her opinion, all books were exciting. The book she opted for this time was the _Newest Restored Version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and The Hounds of Baskerville._

She wasn't even two pages in when she first heard Milo was calling her from downstairs.

"Marcia! We've got mail!" He called up, his voice echoing off the stony walls. Marcia frowned and set her book aside. They rarely ever got any mail. If anyone needed to reach them, they used the Ancient Ways.

"From whom?" she yelled back, sitting up. As she did so she knocked a couple of the cushions to the floor.

"Come down here, please."

She hopped off her window seat and climbed down the narrow steps. He was waiting for her at the bottom, a letter in his hands. "Who's it from?" she asked.

Milo held it out to her. "It's from my mother. She—"

Marcia snatched the letter from him and fumbled for her glasses. Any letters from his mother couldn't be good news. The woman was a terror. Once her glasses were perched on her nose, she read through it quickly. By the time she was finished, her lips were pressed together in a thin line. "She isn't staying here," she finalized, practically throwing the letter back at him. "I will not have that woman in my Keep. She hates both Wizards and Gypsies, and has never liked me anyway. She'll have to find somewhere else to go."

"Marcia, she's my mother I can't just send her away," he protested as she stormed away from him. He followed her down the spiral steps.

"Yes you can, and you will. She didn't even come to our wedding because she didn't want you marrying a 'Lunatic Gypsy Wizard.' So why does she want to visit now?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should give her a chance—"

Once again, Marcia interrupted him. "A chance? Really, Milo? You want to give her a chance?" she spun around angrily to face him.

"Maybe she wants to try a little harder and get to know you," he tried hopefully.

Marcia didn't believe that for a second. "Tell her no, Milo. She isn't stepping foot in my Keep."

It was then that Milo knew she hadn't really read the letter. "Marcia," he began, very, very gently, "My mother wasn't making a request. She's already on her way."

It took her a moment to realize what he was saying. "How long will she be here?" she asked, crossing her arms. Maybe it wouldn't be very long, and she could hide out at the Castle while her mother in-law was here. But then she would lose the time she had with her husband; he was due back onboard _The Cerys_ in two weeks.

He sighed. "Three weeks," he admitted.

Marcia closed her eyes. "That puts me at a week alone with her," she informed him.

"I could delay departure a week," he offered hopefully.

Marcia opened her eyes again, this time glaring at Milo as if it was his entire fault that Juliet would be staying with them for so long. "You'd better," she threatened. "And don't you dare leave me in a room alone with her, or you'll be buying her a coffin."

* * *

><p>Three days later, Marcia and Milo were waiting on the first floor of their Keep, watching out for the carriage containing Juliet. Anger radiated off Marcia in waves, and Milo knew better than to say anything at all. He didn't want to chance saying the wrong thing and cause her to lash out. So they waited in a near uncomfortable silence, Marcia with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed and Milo shifting nervously on his feet as they watched the pathway through the window.<p>

They didn't have to wait any longer than a half hour before a black carriage pulled by an equally black horse drove up the path. Milo stood from where he had sat down earlier. "You coming?" he asked, casting a glance in her direction.

Marcia didn't look at him, she just kept her eyes and her glare focused on Juliet and her ride. "No," she said flatly. She watched as Juliet was helped out of the carriage by the driver and only when she caught sight of her did she turn away from the window. Juliet looked how she always did, slightly round with a disapproving frown on her face. Only difference was her graying brown hair. "I'm going to go read a book, or maybe break a window," Marcia decided as she walked away from the window and towards the stairs.

Milo sighed, and went out the door to greet his mother.

* * *

><p>Juliet was yelling at the driver for dropping one of her heavy suitcases when Milo reached her. He gave the driver a sympathetic smile behind his mother's back before she caught sight of him.<p>

"Milo! How nice to see you again!" Juliet greeted him, way too over the top with her cheeriness. She hugged him, and he hugged her back awkwardly.

"Hello, Mama."

She pulled away from him, and casually wiped her hands on her skirt. She thought he wouldn't notice, but he did. "Is your wife still around?" She asked, and he got the feeling she was hoping for the answer 'no'.

"Yes, Mama. She's inside."

"Hmm." Juliet pursed her lips. "Not going to come say hello, is she?"

"She's busy," Milo defended as he took Juliet's luggage from the driver. Technically she was. Marcia was either reading a book to calm herself or repeatedly breaking and fixing the window with her **Magyk** on the third level of the Keep.

"Doubt it." Juliet pushed past him and headed toward the Keep. Milo followed her.

It was going to be a long three weeks.

* * *

><p>Marcia was going to kill Milo. Of course, that was only if Juliet didn't kill her first. And Marcia couldn't kill Juliet because Septimus was in the room.<p>

The first week and a half had gone by much better than Marcia and Milo had expected. There were a few iffy moments, mostly during dinner, but other than that Marcia would leave the room and Milo would calm his mother down and then go after her. Usually he found her breaking her 'frustration window' as he called it, and the other times she was either pacing in their bedroom or reclining in her window seat. But today Milo had left to go buy groceries from the market because the Drummins didn't want to venture above ground, especially not with Juliet there. They also didn't want to use the Hub, just in case Juliet found it so they pretended it didn't exist. Except for today, because Milo used it to get to the Castle and Septimus used it to get to the Keep. He was only visiting, but his visits were very important to Marcia and she didn't want to have to cancel.

And what had Juliet done? She had interrupted his visit.

Marcia and Septimus were sitting in her study on the third level, chatting quietly about **Magyk** and the Castle and the Wizard Tower, and she was complaining about Juliet, not caring if she heard or not. Thankfully though, Juliet didn't walk in when they were talking about her.

She wandered in and sat in one of the open armchairs as if she had been part of the conversation the entire time. Marcia paused in the middle of her sentence about how she used to handle the stress of being ExtraOrdinary Wizard the moment Juliet stepped foot in the room and closed her eyes tightly, willing the woman to go away.

She didn't. "Who's this?" Juliet asked roughly, gesturing to Septimus.

"I'm Septimus Heap," Septimus introduced himself, glancing at Marcia nervously. She opened her eyes again, fury burning in them.

"He was my apprentice. He took over for me when I retired," Marcia explained.

"He your son?"

Marcia and Septimus both gave her skeptical looks. Not biologically he wasn't, and it was obvious. "No, he isn't. If you had listened to a word I said you would've heard me tell you he was my apprentice," Marcia said crossly. She was going to kill Milo for leaving Juliet here unattended.

"Is he a Wizard?"

"That is what the word apprentice implies," Marcia replied snippily.

"No need to get snarky with me, young lady. Didn't your gypsy parents ever tell you to respect your elders?" Juliet narrowed her eyes at her and crossed her arms.

Septimus inhaled sharply, unsure if he should step in or not and wondering what Marcia's reaction would be.

Marcia stood up slowly, her eyes never leaving Juliet's. "My parents taught me to respect everyone. I learned on my own to respect those who respect me in return. Now leave, Juliet. I'd like to continue my conversation with Septimus." Her voice shook with barely controlled anger, and Septimus could feel the increase of **Magykal** energy in the air because of it.

Juliet glared at her for a few more seconds before thinking better of starting an argument and left. The second she did Marcia angrily whipped around and shattered her 'frustration window', startling Septimus. It got rid of her pent up energy. She fixed it as she sat back down, and put her head in her hands, rubbing at her temples.

"I see what you mean now," Septimus said quietly, and Marcia laughed bitterly.

After a few seconds of silence Marcia looked back up. "Septimus, I'm afraid that I now have a headache I can't seem to get rid of. Do you mind if we continue our conversation another day?" she asked.

"Of course I don't mind. How about I come when she isn't here though?"

Marcia laughed again. "That is a very good idea." She stood up, and so did Septimus. "I think I'm going to go lie down. I haven't been able to sleep since that thing arrived."

"Alright." Septimus briefly hugged his old mentor, and then stepped back. "See you next week."

Marcia waited until he was gone before shattering the window again. She and Milo were going to have a serious talk.

* * *

><p>Milo walked up the steps to the top most floor anxiously, knowing Marcia would be furious with him and trying to delay himself enough time to think of something to say. He didn't know what he was thinking when he had left; he hadn't expected his mother to purposefully go and start a fight. He certainly hadn't expected her to interrupt Marcia's visit with Septimus. Even though the argument hadn't gotten too terribly heated, Marcia had still been wounded and she was angry with both him and his mother for the interruption.<p>

When he reached their bedroom, Marcia was sitting up in bed, a book in her lap and her glasses on her face. He didn't even get the chance to open his mouth to try and apologize before she spoke.

"I'm not talking to you."

Yep, she was furious with him. "Marcia—"

"No." She didn't want to hear it.

"Marce, I—"

She didn't put her book down, but did raise her voice. "Don't 'Marce' me. You left her here, you let her interrupt my meeting with Septimus—"

"I didn't let her do anything. I left for groceries. We're going to need food for the next two weeks, aren't we?"

She glanced over the edge of her book, glaring at him over the rim of her glasses. "You could have sent one of the Drummins—"

He interrupted her again. "Not if you wanted Juliet to see them. You know she's been spending a lot of time in the Fire Pit, in our kitchen."

He was right. Damn him. She stopped looking at him. "I'm going to go find a place to stay in the Castle tomorrow," she informed him. He was going to come up with a very good reason for her to stay. She knew it. She didn't want him to do that, she'd end up caving. She didn't want to do that either. She wanted to be angry with him.

"No, Marcia don't," he protested, "I've got not even two weeks before I have to leave!"

She was glad the book was in front of her face, hiding the sudden onset of tears. She knew he had two weeks before he needed to leave. And Juliet was ruining their time together. "I know," she said quietly, finally closing her book. Her anger faded against her wishes, but she found that she didn't want to fight with him. He came closer and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What are we going to do then?" He asked, his voice equally as soft.

"I can't stay here with her here, and we can't force her to leave, can we?"

He sighed sadly. "No, we can't."

Marcia removed her glasses and leaned back against the pillows, stretching so that her feet were in Milo's lap. She covered her eyes with her hands. "I don't know what to do," she confessed.

His hands dropped to his lap, resting on her leg. He didn't know what to do either. He couldn't kick his mother out, she was seventy three and the driver wouldn't be back for another week and a half. He didn't want Marcia to leave either. She wouldn't want to come on board _The Cerys_ with him; she didn't like being on boats too much. Because of this they only had the next two weeks with each other before he had to leave again. He wondered what he could do to fix this.

Then he remembered the previous times they had danced together, the more recent one being seven years ago when their relationship had started up again. It had fixed things between them. He wondered if it might do it again. "Do you want to dance?" he offered hopefully.

She didn't move. "You know I don't dance."

"I know, but I was wondering if you might want to."

"Not with Juliet here."

Milo glanced over at her sadly. "You're really going to let her influence your life?"

His question caused her to move her hands. The slightly lost look that had been in her eyes a few seconds ago and the anger were gone, replaced with determination. He knew he had said the right thing. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting next to him. Juliet did not influence her life. Marcia wasn't about to let her. "No, I'm not. Get up." She stood up and grabbed his hands, pulling him up too. "We're going dancing. And this time, I'm teaching you."

* * *

><p>Juliet Banda watched her son and his wife from the shadows. They were dancing in the sitting room, in front of the fire. She had no objection to her son dancing; after all she had paid for dancing lessons when he was a young boy. But he wasn't dancing anything classical like a waltz. Her son was gypsy dancing, as she called it.<p>

He was smiling and his wife was laughing (she wasn't even aware that sound was possible) as he twirled her around. It would've been beautiful, Juliet thought, if his wife was any other person and they were dancing any other dance. She didn't know what she did to deserve a son who betrayed her like this.

She watched them from the shadows, holding her tongue. She would say something about it another day.

Juliet turned and left, laughter following her as it echoed off the walls.


	5. Their Last Dance

A/N: This is the last part. And yes, it did have to end this way. It takes place (spoiler right here) during the end of Tod's apprenticeship. I will not be continuing this story, but I will be writing another called A Fight For Life. It follows along the lines of this part here.

As always, Septimus Heap does not belong to me.

And to all those who have reviewed, thank you! You are awesome and I hope you like this one at least a little bit.

* * *

><p>Milo was sitting on the sofa by the fire, a drink in his hands. He thought it might've been his third one, but he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything these days. He wasn't sure if he would be able to get up in the morning or that if he truly thought about what was happening that he would be able to function. He wasn't sure about a lot of things, and he didn't know if he would be able to do anything at all but numb the pain in the upcoming weeks.<p>

Marcia was dying, and there was nothing he could do. So he drank. She hated it; he saw it in her eyes when he sat beside her during her treatments and when he held her at night. She hated how he drank to get rid of the icy fear that gripped his heart whenever he wasn't drinking. He knew he shouldn't be drinking, that it was only hurting both of them and that it made her feel alone because he wasn't fully with her. But he didn't know what else to do.

He wanted to know how she could be so calm about it; he wanted to know how it was even possible that she could accept her death like that. He wished she hadn't told him that particular detail, and that she'd stop throwing it out there in their conversations. She was only making it harder for him. He couldn't accept her death, he wouldn't. He wanted her to live. At this point, there was still a chance, so why wasn't she fighting it? Why was it her diagnosis that had to worsen, spread to her bones and leave her in excruciating pain? People were diagnosed with lung cancer every day, and a lot of them survived. Why wasn't she fighting it?

"Do you want to dance?"

Her soft, raspy voice dragged him out of his thoughts and guiltily he hid his drink from her view, turning to face her. She was standing by the doorway, leaning nearly all of her weight against the frame. She had her purple robe wrapped tightly around her, showing off the amount of weight she had lost. She was too thin. On her head, in place of her think, dark, curly hair was her wig. Also curly, but not the right color. It pained him to see it. She was losing everything to the cancer. She didn't even have her voice anymore. He missed it. He missed her voice, her hair, her smile; he missed her.

"I'd love to," he told her softly. She could hardly hold herself up and she wanted to dance. Now, of all possible times they could've danced, she wanted to. He wasn't going to deny her that. Not ever, not even when he knew it would only tire her further. Besides, this could be his last chance to do anything with her, and he wasn't about to turn that down. Milo stood and walked over to her, enveloping her in his arms.

They didn't waltz, or "gypsy dance" as his mother would've called it had she still been alive. Instead Marcia wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder, pressing herself as close as she could get to him. He held her up, her own body too tired to really do so anymore. They swayed back and forth gently, the motion surprisingly not making her sick. He kissed the top of her head. She could hardly feel it through the wig.

"I'm sorry my body's giving up on me," She whispered, breaking their silence.

Milo felt tears well up in his eyes. "Don't apologize. It isn't your fault," he said hoarsely.

"Milo—"

"Marcia, please. I don't want you talking about your death. You may have accepted it but I haven't, and when you throw it out there it only makes it harder."

She knew that even if she didn't remind him of her inevitable death, he'd still never accept it. But she didn't say anything, instead holding him just the slightest bit tighter with the little strength she has left. He tightens his hold on her as well, and continued.

"When you make remarks like that, it makes it seem like you're giving up. That you aren't going to fight anymore."

She wanted to tell him that she wasn't ever going to give up, but she knew that it wasn't completely true. Some days she wanted more than anything to give up. Those were the days she was in the most pain, when she didn't want to get out of bed. Other days, like the days when Septimus visits, she wanted nothing more than to fight the cancer with all she had. She knew the loss of her would be hard on both Milo and Septimus, and wished that she could prevent them from that, wished that she could change the fact that she was dying, but she couldn't and she was so very tired. She also wished they'd stop telling her she'd get better. She knew she wouldn't be. Their blatant denial hurt her, and she wanted them to stop. Just like how she wanted Milo to stop drinking. It wasn't doing him any good, and if she died he'd only drink more and then where would that leave him?

"I'm going to try fighting," she said instead, and for them she would. She would do whatever she could to stay alive just a little while longer. Until the pain was too great.

Milo didn't want her to try. He wanted her to do. He didn't tell her that though, because he knew she'd had enough of people telling her what she could and couldn't do. Her trying was the best she could give him, and he understood that. But it didn't mean he had to like it.

They swayed in silence once more, until Marcia was too tired to remain upright and Milo was supporting more of her weight. He forced his tears back. "You're exhausted," he whispered in her ear.

She shook her head, and immediately wished she hadn't, black spots dancing in her vision. "I'm not," she protested, but it was a weak one.

"You should rest."

"I'm dancing with my husband for the last time. I don't want _rest_." Her hoarse, raspy voice had a tremble to it, her words slightly frantic.

This time Milo couldn't stop his tears. "Don't do that Marcia. Don't say that it's the last time. I can't bear it." Tears freely fell down his face and his only hope was that maybe she wouldn't notice.

She did, and it sparked her own tears. "Milo, you know as well as I do that it is. I won't be able to do anything in the next few weeks, much less hold myself up. I can hardly hold myself up now." As if proving her point, her legs suddenly began to give out.

He lifted her into her arms as they did, and carried her over to the sofa. She saw his drink, but didn't say a single thing. He laid her down and pulled the blanket over her, trying to chase away the ever-present cold she experienced. He knew it wouldn't do much, but she appreciated it anyway.

She reached up and wiped his tears away with a very shaky hand. He grabbed it and kissed her fingers, silently willing the shaking to stop even though he knew it wouldn't.

"You're going to get better. You are." He insisted, denying her impending death. This time she didn't say anything that would start any kind of argument or tears. She wanted to enjoy the little time she had left with him. "When you're better," he continued, "We'll dance again. First thing."

She could only smile. "Okay."

* * *

><p>Three weeks later, on her way to Septimus's rooms after her treatment, Marcia collapsed on the landing. Tod eventually found her and alerted Septimus, who carried her back to the Sick Bay. Milo was notified, and Dandra required that Marcia stay in the Sick Bay for the remainder of her treatment.<p>

Marcia wasn't a fool. She knew she would never leave it again. She'd never have long **Magykal** conversations with Septimus, or see her Keep, or travel the world again. She knew Milo knew it too, even though he continued to assure her she would get better, that they would dance again.

It was one of her biggest regrets; they'd only danced together five times and their wedding day had not been one of them. Looking back on what she had told Milo, she had been correct.

It had been their last dance.


End file.
